


An Eye for an Eye

by SecretlyWritingFanfic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Bad Coffee, Bart's Hospital, CERN, Group Therapy, Johnlock in progress, M/M, No Eurus Holmes, Red Beard, References to Moriarty, Running in alleys after murderous cab drivers, Start at a Study in Pink and work outwards, The grubby bit of Camden makes an appearance, They're getting together, Transplants, cloning, john's ptsd, stale bourbon cremes, they just don't know it yet, zero Eurus Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-05 04:23:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyWritingFanfic/pseuds/SecretlyWritingFanfic
Summary: The black market for clones is booming in modern-day London, and someone is making a killing.





	1. Advantage

When William died, Mummy cried and Daddy cried. Mycroft was already five, but he cried buckets when they said his older brother wouldn’t be sleeping in the bed with the super hero sheets anymore.  
Because Mummy had connections to CERN, and The Hague, and think tanks in Washington, the condolence letters that arrived were pasted with a rainbow of stamps. Because Daddy practiced at Barts and published at Oxford, he was the one the Recovery Initiative approached first to discuss William’s DNA.

Sherlock was born in a private hospital on the sixth of January after an average amount of labour and far too much fussing as far as Mummy was concerned. When they held him afterwards in the recovery ward and traced the tiny curl of his nostrils, the curve of his cheek and the whorls of sparse, dark hair on his crown, they said that he was the image of William – and they were right. 

When Sherlock turned six (now older than William had been at his final birthday) Mummy spent the day trying very hard not to cry and failing often when she thought Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. Daddy poured a whisky for her and sat quietly in front of the fire. Sherlock had wanted to go to the funfair still in the village green two weeks after Christmas. Sherlock had wanted a puppy. Sherlock had wanted a day that didn’t seem to hang on the absence of a boy he did not know and Mycroft barely remembered. 

The two boys walked to the end of the garden where muddy tomato pots and tangled raspberry canes lay under frost. They pulled low branches from an ornamental pear until Sherlock began to cry. He would have held the tears in otherwise. Mycroft knew that. Mycroft knew an awful lot and it was starting to alarm adults outside the family.

Hands gritty, socks soaked in winter mud, Sherlock raged and wept. He screamed into the hedge and startled a rabbit. 

“They won’t let him go,” the little boy hiccupped between ragged sobs, smearing a wrist across his nose and cheeks. There was clay streaked along his jaw. Mycroft pulled a long sleeve over his hand and scrubbed the dirt a bit harder than he needed to. 

“They feel too much, Sherlock. They can’t let William go because they still care for him.”

“But he’s dead and I’m alive!” Sherlock whined. He ducked away from Mycroft and stood rigid, staring back up the garden to the house where their parents were no doubt pouring over photos of a boy long gone. 

“He is, and he isn’t.” Mycroft’s tone was prim and exact. “You are as much him as yourself. You know that.”

“I’m not him.”

“But you are, Sherlock. You are him down to the last teardrop and snot crumb.”

Nearly twenty years in and cloning was still a dirty word, though the practice was gaining ground in very exclusive and high ranking circles. The public had already made demons of cloning science. There were lurid, screaming headlines in the red tops asking just how human a copy of a human could be. 

There were hearings and protests. There were television debates between boring old men in stiff suits with poppy pins in the lapels. There was an EU tribunal convened to agree in limiting cloned organ transplants to less than 30% of an overall human body. 

Sherlock, the perfect replication of William, toed a loose pebble in the half-frozen turf and snarled at the ground. “I won’t care if they cry about him ever again.”  
Night was creeping down the hedgerow and into the garden, breathing shadows across Sherlock’s face. 

“I’ll just run away. I don’t care what they want.”

Mycroft was thirteen now and missed nothing. As small and soft as Sherlock was, the little boy had a will of iron. Sherlock might not get far on the day he chose to run, but he would do it and possibly get hurt or killed in the process. Something would have to be done. 

Pressing his lips together firmly, Mycroft bent low and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder: “You will not run away. I won’t allow it. There’s far too much washing up to do in the house for just me. Anyway, they’ve bought you a puppy. Once they’ve had a chance to calm down you’ll get to name it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were beacons in the growing dark. “Promise?”

“It has red fur and long ears. I saw it this afternoon in Mummy’s office. There will also be cake.”

There was a moment of indecision as the six-year-old wrestled with the romance of running away (accounting for scenarios where he did and did not leave a note) to lead a vagabond life of horrible misdeeds. He licked his lips.

“I’m going to call it Red Beard and train it to bite the postman.”

“You will do no such thing, but Red Beard sounds like a good name.”

They walked back to the house, hands deep in their pockets and shoulders hunched against the wintry darkness.

“It hurts, Mycroft. They care about him being dead more than me being alive.”

Sherlock was incredibly intelligent – not quite as much as Mycroft, but perhaps that was for the best. The younger Holmes would not be placated for long by loyal dogs and sharp reprimands from his brother. Medical texts in the study were already going grubby under his small fingers. Ideas were beginning to boil over and facts were piling up in his head. He would be overwhelmed by it all before long if something wasn’t done to kerb him. Would the same have happened to William? Mycroft breathed a plume of mist; looked up to the emerging stars.

“Caring isn’t an advantage, little brother.”


	2. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words caught in his throat, pulling at sudden tears he had to swallow to reply quietly. 
> 
> "Nothing happens to me."

Captain John Watson leaned over a stack of papers, neatly collated and bound at the top right corner with a clip. The seals of Bart’s and Her Majesty’s Army were partially obscured, but the heading was bold and clear.

RECOVERY INITIATIVE: PATIENT RELEASE 

Deployment orders practically vibrated in the hip pocket of John’s barrack khakis. He’d waited a long time. Now a battle song rang in his ears, something like thunder and heartbeats and the endless wash of ocean against rocks. 

There had been mountains of paperwork before he could get on the plane: next of kin, last will, emergency contacts, verifying medical details. It had been torture to drag his men through the pile, unbearable to finish his own.  
At the very end of the ordeal, as an aide collected packets from his unit, a woman in a fawn pantsuit stepped into the canteen. She was lush, apple cheeked; curling brown hair pinned back from her face. The lanyard of her ID tag ran over high, creamy collar bones to fall along the placket of her buttoned silk blouse.

She gave John a brief smile.

He would miss Britain after all. 

Now in a poorly lit office, she offered him a new stack of papers along with credentials from Bart’s and a branch of government that didn’t usually bother with names.  
“Dr Watson, you contributed to the Initiative during your student time at Saint Bartholomew’s. When leaving, you indicated an interest in continuing your collaboration. Your current deployment offers the project a unique opportunity.”

John ticked the back of a fingernail down the topmost sheet, scanning his life’s work.  
“Everything’s in here. Chelmsford, U of L – very thorough.”

“Dr Watson –“

“Call me John,” he grinned, knowing the charm he could wield and that he was shipping out tomorrow.

“John, we need candidates with medical training. We need the best – that’s you.” 

He nodded to the completed forms at her elbow. “Just me?”

“One of the best,” she corrected, lips quirking as she patted the stack, “You know as well as anyone it’s better to have a stable –“

“Than one thoroughbred” he finished with a smirk that widened when she dropped her gaze.

He would absolutely miss Britain.

“Are you worried about complications, side effects -?” she was looking at him from under long, dark lashes; her mouth slightly open and very red.

“Mnnm, more that you won’t get much. Couldn’t stub a toe if I tried. Nothing ever happens to me.”

She brightened, slid her pen across the desk. “All the more reason to say yes.”  
____

“Watson, hold on! In through the nose, son – stabilise that heart rate!”

Rockets or jets overhead. In his ears the whine of onboard alarms, squeal of radio static as the Humvee driver relayed coordinates. The convoy speeding over rocky open land. Its cabin bounced, jostled. 

His chest was burning, crisping in the heat of un-medicated pain. His shoulder was wet, arm powerless and radiating agony. He reached with his good hand – for what? A blurred shape leaned close, took his hand, shouted again.

“WATSON! YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER?! DO NOT SLEEP. DO NOT – JOHN!“

White and red bloomed behind his eyes and everything went dark.  
_______

“How’s your blog going?” 

The therapist had been engaged by the RI when his night terrors had begun interfering with overnight stats. She met him in an unused office in Barts’ research wing twice a week. Her actual practice felt stilted, but the breathing exercises helped.

John inhaled sharply. “Yeah, good.”

She aimed her pen at his chest, “You haven’t written a word, have you?”

He flinched, wondering where accusation came on the wellness scale. “You just wrote, ‘Still has trust issues.’”

“And you read my writing upside down. See what I mean?”

Caught out, he smiled, but she didn’t return it. There had been a time when it was easy to make women smile at him. 

“John, you’re the first soldier to receive cloned transplants over 30% of your body. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, to this” and here she gestured his outline with her pen, “Writing a blog about everything that’s happened will honestly help.”

The words caught in his throat, pulling at sudden tears he had to swallow to reply quietly. 

“Nothing happens to me.”


	3. Fulcrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One breath: Hold on.  
> Two: Get through the moment.  
> Three: You are alive and that’s what matters.

“Watson, hold on! In through the nose, son – stabilise that heart rate!”  
  
Rockets or jets overhead. In his ears the whine of onboard alarms, squeal of radio static as the Humvee driver relayed coordinates. The convoy speeding over rocky open land. Its cabin bounced, jostled.  
His chest was burning, crisping in the heat of un-medicated pain. His shoulder was wet, arm powerless and radiating agony. He reached with his good hand – for what? Sholto’s blurred shape leaned close, took his hand, shouted again.  
  
“WATSON! YOU HEAR ME, SOLDIER?! DO NOT SLEEP. DO NOT – JOHN!“  
  
White and red bloomed behind his eyes. The world went dark.  
  
_______  
  
  
“How’s your blog going?”  
  
The therapist had been engaged by the RI when his night terrors had begun interfering with overnight stats. She met him in an unused office in Barts’ research wing twice a week. Her actual practice felt stilted, but the breathing exercises helped.  
  
John inhaled sharply. “Yeah, good.”  
  
She aimed her pen at his chest, “You haven’t written a word, have you?”  
  
He flinched, wondering where accusation came on the wellness scale. “You just wrote, ‘Still has trust issues.’”  
  
“And you read my writing upside down. See what I mean?”  
  
Caught out, he smiled, but she didn’t return it. There had been a time when women had smiled readily for him.  
  
“John, you’re the first soldier to receive cloned transplants over 30% of your body. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, to this.” She gestured his outline with her pen, “Writing a blog about everything that’s happened will honestly help.”  
  
The words caught in his throat, pulling at sudden tears he had to swallow to reply, quietly, “Nothing happens to me.”  
  
_______  
  
The room was hot, full of reporters and camera lights, thick with a slush of voices and shutter clicks. At the front of the room, sweating under halogens and regretting every second spent in the spotlight, DI Lestrade nodded as Sergeant Donovan opened the floor to questions.  
  
“Detective Inspector, how can the suicides be linked?”  
  
Had he not just spent the last twenty minutes talking about this?  
  
“Well, they took the same poison. Um. They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication of –“  
  
“But you can’t have serial suicides.” An interrupting voice. It was that little shit from The Globe.  
  
“Well, apparently you can.” Lestrade thought briefly of checking for outstanding traffic violations, citations, littering offenses.  
  
Another hand, “These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”  
  
“There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one.”  
  
A cascade of chimes flooded the conference. His phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up to deliver a message: _WRONG!_  
  
Later, storming down the hall at New Scotland Yard, Donovan fumed, “You’ve got to stop him doing that. He’s making us look like idiots!” Press dismissed, day over, heartburn threatening his plans for a chipper, Lestrade sighed. “If you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.”  
  
_______  
  
  
John; alone in the hospital café, cane at his thigh; hands flat on the table, framing untouched tea in a cardboard cup. He looked terrible—knew it by the way people looked over, but not at, him.  
Three months in recovery, another three in physio learning to move like a human again ( _because once half your body is blown away, there’s something less than human about what’s added back)_.  
  
( _No, stop that._ )  
  
The thought sent sparks along the backs of his hands and up his arms. At the joint of his shoulder he felt runnels of electricity where new met old and the arm he’d lost fought for space with the one the RI had given him. His mouth firmed, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth.  
  
One breath. _Hold on.  
_  
Two. _Get through the moment.  
_  
Three. _You're alive and that’s what matters.  
_  
Four. _Fuck off for living when you should be dead.  
_  
Five. _There are better men than you in black bags.  
_  
Six —  
  
“John? John Watson!” A wide face, gold-rimmed spectacles perched on a red nose; a stranger. John hoped his smile was enough to cover the confusion.  
  
“Stamford. Mike Stamford!”  
  
A flood of memories: shaggy haircuts, white lab coats, swapping jokes and trading shifts. John’s smile was genuine now as he reached up to offer his good hand—his human hand   
  
( _No. Stop that._ )  
  
“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello. Hi.”  
  
Without pause, Stamford wrapped John’s hand in his own, shaking it tightly as he grinned and nodded down to his thick belly and chin. “Yeah, I know. I got fat!”  
  
________  
  
“So. bad day was it?” Molly Hooper. Too eager. Mouth too red.  
  
The corpse on the table before him slowly coming up in stripes nearly the same shade. Sherlock rocked back on his heels, making a small sound of satisfaction in his nose as he tucked the riding crop beside the corpse. He smoothed a rill of dark hair back from his forehead, drawing out a notebook to jot furiously on the clean, white page. All the better to ignore Molly’s stilted attempts at conversation.  
  
She wasn’t the first to try getting in the way of The Work. Someday she’d lose interest, but in the meantime he’d need to know what bruises would form.  
  
Molly squared her shoulders beneath her lab coat and tried again. “I was wondering, maybe later. There’s a group - when you’re finished?”  
  
Boring, dull. Expected.  
  
“Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.” There just wasn’t any point in wasting time or resources. No point caring. He would take the coffee, though.  
  
But then, a little later: “What group?”  
  
Molly startled, pushed back from her rack of petri dishes with a small sound of surprise. Her look of confusion drew a deep huff and Sherlock waved a free hand to hurry her memory, “You said, ‘Later there’s a group.’”  
  
Struck silent, Molly’s face, ears, and neck deep flushed scarlet. She worked her jaw for a moment, hands fluttering, before finding words again, “There’s a – “  
  
Sherlock sniffed, digging into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone. “What feature do the victims share? Troubled pasts and cloned organs. And what do troubled people do? Talk about their troubles.”   
  
He turned the phone screen to her, displaying a search return, “Transplant Recipient Support groups. Excellent idea. Thank you Molly.”  
  
He was standing, swirling into his coat and heading for the door, sweeping down the hallway before Molly had time to manage a word.  
  
“Ok.” she replied to the empty room.  
  
___________________  
  
Russel Square Gardens was surprisingly full for a weekday mid-afternoon. Mothers wheeled infants along the paths while children and dogs rolled over long lawns of worn grass.  
  
“I don’t know, mate. They’ve already got me seeing a therapist.”  
  
“Ah, go on. I know the woman running it. Says she's seen real results.”  
  
John took a deep pull of his takeaway coffee, paper adhered painfully to his lip. Mike was a good soul, always had been.  
There was bird song, the echo of traffic, the pulse of life moving on even as John struggled to manage the afternoon. If a group helped where private sessions didn’t...  
  
“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sources and notes:  
> I've been floating around the BBC Sherlock fandom for lo these seven years, and while I'm fairly sure I could recap the episodes front-to-back based on wallpaper, I looked to the meticulous transcripts of Ariane DeVere for exact wording where needed. Read them yourself at: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html  
> While every girl loves a soldier, I'm not an expert in British military service. I relied on an absolutely astounding wealth of information by Wellington Goose at http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/30473137292/semantics1
> 
> Subscribe for updates on new chapters. Like and comment for unending writer adoration. Follow me on tumblr at secretlywritingfanfic.  
> This author will work for kudos.


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